


How I met my best friend

by Its_Raineing_Words



Series: Young Mafia [1]
Category: Mafia 2
Genre: Gen, How They Met, children!mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 17:45:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1478476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Its_Raineing_Words/pseuds/Its_Raineing_Words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vito moves from Sicily to Empire Bay, on his first day of school he met Joe Barbaro and nothing was ever the same again...</p>
            </blockquote>





	How I met my best friend

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-post from my Tumblr account so if you want to read it there here is the link: http://musically-literally.tumblr.com/post/51234619434/how-i-met-my-best-friend

Vito Scaletta and his family had left Sicily for Empire Bay just over three months ago, it had taken that time to get settled into American life-which was a lot different to how he lived in Sicily…let’s just leave it there. He was enrolled in school along with his sister, Francesca by his mother who wanted them to have the best education. His mother had insisted he go to the school outside of the Italian quarter so he’d learn English and he certainly wasn’t going to do that in a neighbourhood full of Italians.

The school itself was a sombre building, grey bricks and sunken in windows and the only thing that made it different from the other depressing buildings on that road was the playground. And even that managed to look hostile and unwelcoming. 

“Vito, follow me-we need to get you inside before you’re late.” His mother scowled as she ushered him along the road quickly-not wanting to be late

“Sì Mama.”

“English Vito, English; how are you supposed to learn it if you never speak it?”

“Yes Mama.”

“That’s better Vito, now come on.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him through the doors into a cold-looking reception area. An equally cold-looking lady with greying hair handed him a note.

“Just give it to the teacher, the classroom is number 24.” She spoke so fast it made his head spin. His Mama waved him goodbye as she walked out of the door and he was on his own. He made his way down the corridor and found number 24-he hesitated before knocking, trying to remember the English for any questions he might be asked. He knocked gingerly.

“Come in.” An annoyed sounding voice hollered from inside and a few hushed whisperings could be heared also.

He shuffled in and looked at the children in front of him, they looked more comfortable than he did and they were a lot more boisterous than him-whispering not very quietly to themselves. He suddenly felt self-conscious; he was a lot shorter and skinnier than they were, he hadn’t had the best diet in Sicily so the clothes his father had bought with the small amount of money they had hung off him comically.

“What’s your name, then? Speak up.” The man, Mr Whitehall he learned later on, snapped taking the paper from him and inspecting it.

“Vittorio Scaletta, sir.”

“You emigrate here?” He said not unkindly-seeming to take pity on him and his obvious Italian accent.

“Yes sir.”

“Where did you emigrate from?”

“Sicily.”

The man nodded as if that was the right thing to say somehow and waved his hand in the general direction of the class-the only seat left was next to a mean looking boy with his blonde hair slicked back and an ugly sneer. He walked there quickly, not wanting to draw even more attention to himself and sat down, pulling his pencil-case out of his satchel.

The kid stuck out his hand to shake. Vito took it, hoping maybe he’d make friends.

“Charlie Scott…Meatball…” He mocked, Vito couldn’t tell what he meant but he knew it was meant in ill will.

His eyes widened in shock. He put his head down on the desk facing away from the boy. The lesson went by (he barely understood a word) as did the next and then it was break. And not a moment too soon, Charlie had been kicking him under the table and whispering nasty things the whole time; Vito felt lucky he couldn’t understand most of it.

He was sat on the bench on his own outside in that awful playground thinking about how much he missed Sicily, even if they were poor, when a shadow fell into his view. He tensed.

“Salve” Vito looked up to see a podgy looking kid with dark curly hair grinning broadly at him

“Tu parli Italiano…” He furrowed his brow

“Of course I do, now scoot over or I’ll sit on ya. Name’s Joe, Joe Barbaro.”

“I’m-”

“Vittorio, I know, I know.” Joe had said his name right (not with that ugly accent the Americans had that seemed to turn everything into concrete and harsh metal) which made him happy in ways he didn’t fully understand

“No! I mean-I uh…I…” he paused, what did he mean to say?

“Just say it and I’ll figure it out.”

“I say that I’m Vito, it’s not my name.”

“Oh, like a nickname! Cool! Vito sounds much better, less stuffy.”

He muttered the word over to himself, trying to memorise it.

“You better not say nickname though, what I mean is-if someone asks your name say Vittorio but I go by Vito. That’s what we say. Or just say Vito, doesn’t matter.”

“Oh…ok.”

“You really are bad at English aren’t you?” He chuckled

"Davvero?" Vito deadpanned-finally getting more comfortable with the boy

Joe burst out laughing and didn’t stop even when the other kids stared; in fact when Charlie sniggered at them Joe just yelled “Mangia merde e morte” very loudly in their direction. Vito gasped and turned to look at him.

“What? They don’t speak Italian. What does it matter?”

They sat there for the rest of break, Joe talking, Vito listening and occasionally chuckling. When class started again he didn’t feel so bad, even though he was sat next to Charlie-he had a friend.

When school finished he walked out of the gate to be greeted by his Mama.

“So Vito how has school today?”

“Good.”

“You need to speak English until we get home.”

“Mama!” He protested

“Vito…”

“Okay.”

“Did you make friends?”

“One, his name is Joe Barbaro.”

“He’s Italian? That is a good thing but why don’t you make some American friends?”

“They don’t like me.”

Vito was glad he’d met Joe, Joe was almost the complete opposite to him but still wanted to be his friend. He’d asked Joe why he went to school here and not in the Italian quarter, Joe said he’d been expelled and this was the only school that would take him. Joe was a good guy though, loud but not bad. 


End file.
